Sucking jujubes
In a bathtub a suicide. Drowning glory of a wingless swan. Bobbing in the soap. Dead for well over a night but looking alive. Up and down went its head. Oh how peaceful it looks, how serene, cried elise and producing a napkin from her valise, she wiped a tear. She shed those drops thinking great beauty poignant in the wash, great emotions swept her thoughts and she rushed out into the garden and picked a berry. At her window on the outside she paused. Lifted her head once to the sky and picked a chrysanthemum from the brush. A silent prayer of benediction of thankful humility. With a berry in her mouth, a flower in her left she wiped the mud on her right on the side of her dress. And rushed to our deceased friend the swan. She called him sweet and called him pretty. She called him darling and stooped to kiss his head. But alas. Our swan. My swan. Its dead. After the funeral (where everyone put on black) she only made one appearance, at the races. In a top hat and a strapless bra. Off shoulder gown and a ring each on her little fingers. As past her all the horses sped she clinked her glass and made a speech. To swannie my love of a few years past. He had no business going a swimming if he had no hands. Fanny Adams.